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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24732049">Take Me Out (With The Crowd)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabforpalermo/pseuds/dabforpalermo'>dabforpalermo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A little, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Baseball, Angst, M/M, Pregnancy, Slow Burn, Sports, Sports Bars, Underage Drinking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:49:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,011</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24732049</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabforpalermo/pseuds/dabforpalermo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“How the hell did you do that?”</p>
<p>Martín shrugs, pulling back and running a hand through his sweaty hair. “I did the math.”</p>
<p> Or: Berlemo baseball AU</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Raquel Murillo/Professor | Sergio Marquina</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I think this idea came to me in the middle of the night. Just in case you’re wary about this, I promise it’s not completely just about baseball haha; I wish I could write something without including way too much angst and romance, but alas. Also, warning, although I do like baseball and watch it quite often, I am not a pro, and so I apologize if I misuse any terms, feel free to correct me!!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>March 22nd, 2007, Madrid. </b>
</p>
<p>Sports bars have always been annoying. The air is thick with tension, each moment of heavy silence is tainted with men trying to solicit the lonesome women alongside them, or the grunts of despair as everyone stares at the same televisions, their heads perked up in interest at the screen. They’re all united in a way, and that only makes the experience more difficult. </p>
<p>Martín Berrote sits at a table, his fingernails lightly tracing along the rough carvings of the wood. He imagines a young couple, barely legal, drunkenly engraving their initials in a pitiful attempt to immortalize their love. He resists the urge to chew on the skin of the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowing in on the screen in a futile effort to focus. </p>
<p>“- I’ll put $20 on it.”</p>
<p>Martín’s ears catch onto the remaining bit of a conversation. He twists in his uncomfortable stool, resting his chin on his palm. </p>
<p>“You’re an idiot. Fonollosa sprained his wrist a month ago.”</p>
<p>The name sparks a sense of curiosity in Martín. He plays it over a couple of times in his head, the curiosity turning into plain anger at the way the name sounds on his tongue.</p>
<p>“He’s been cleared for playing.”</p>
<p>Martín holds back on the eye-roll that almost shows, wondering how somebody can place money down on a college baseball team, especially one like this. Their playing is sloppy, their strategies are off, and Martín wants to call over the bartender to change the channel to something as mundane as curling. </p>
<p>To stay he doesn’t like baseball would be an understatement. The game makes him grumpy, and if it weren’t for the warm, yet very annoying, shelter of the sports bar, he’s sure he would never watch baseball again. He doesn’t appreciate the way everybody wants to be independent, and the feeling of defeat he gets every time a batter strikes out. It’s a game with no strategy, and Martín almost feels pain every time he views it. </p>
<p>“Hey, kid,” Alfonso, the ever kind owner, greets. He pushes a water bottle onto his table and raises an eyebrow at Martín’s shaggy appearance. </p>
<p>Martín could almost cry at the sight of the drink. Since he still has a couple more months until he turns 18, Alfonso has set a ban on anybody serving him, although he is still allowed in the bar whenever he wants. “This game is making me homicidal.”</p>
<p>Alfonso chuckles, pulling up a chair and sitting beside him. “You need to lighten up a little,” he says, turning to face Martín. “Look, I have an offer for you.”</p>
<p>Martín hums, unscrewing the cap off of the bottle. He takes a sip and relishes in the cool water soothing his burning throat. </p>
<p>“I found a team.”</p>
<p>“I get it, you want me to join your boyband. I’m honoured.”</p>
<p>“Martín.” His voice is stern, so Martín holds back on his remarks for a second. “Hear me out.”</p>
<p>“The stage is yours, amigo.”</p>
<p>“There’s a baseball team in Pamplona-“</p>
<p>“Nope,” Martín interrupts. Alfonso takes a deep breath in through his nose, and Martín briefly notes the angry vein starting to show through his neck. </p>
<p>“I can tell just by looking at you that you have enough skill to make it big, kid.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t played ball in months.”</p>
<p>“Well maybe it’s time to start?”</p>
<p>Martín looks around, sees the men betting on teams that will never win, sees the women awkwardly trying to show their wedding ring while they’re being chatted up, and most of all, he sees the television, which shows the huge grin of Fonollosa as he makes the game winning pitch. He turns back to Alfonso, who’s already holding out a business card. </p>
<p>“I’ll pick you up at 12 tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“You don’t even know where I live.” Martín pockets the card, standing up and wincing at the sharp pain in his hips. He almost wants to tell Alfonso that he’ll join the team so long as the money he makes goes toward fixing up the bar, but holds his tongue. </p>
<p>“Then you come here. I’m taking you batting.”</p>
<p>The weight of the paper in his ripped jeans follows him all the way home. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>True to his words, Martín is waiting outside of the bar the next day at noon, wearing an old tank top and shorts. It’s a hot day, not unlike every other one, but Martín decides he doesn’t have to put a ton of effort into his appearance. Hell, Alsonfo has seen him passed out with his torso hanging out a dumpster before, so he’s not too worried about the way he looks on his off days. Alfonso pulls up into the parking lot a few minutes after him, rolling down the passenger's seat window and calling out for him. </p>
<p>“Hop in!”</p>
<p>“This is very unorthodox. How many other young men do you force into your car?”</p>
<p>Alfonso rolls his eyes, his hand placed on the back of Martín’s seat as he drives out of the parking lot. He pats the seat a couple times then brings his hand back. </p>
<p>“Are you excited?”</p>
<p>“Over the moon,” Martín replies, not bothering to hide the dryness in his tone.</p>
<p>“You’re gonna have fun. I promise.”</p>
<p>“What, we’re going to stand in a line and play catch? I know I haven’t had the opportunity to experience that with my own dad, so are you trying to adopt me or something?”</p>
<p>“You’re practically my own already.” Alfonso smiles. “Except for the fact that you’re a little stupid. I could never create a child with the lack of street smarts you have.”</p>
<p>“I’m going into my third year of university at the age of 17, I don’t understand what you mean by stupid-“</p>
<p>“You’re smart, yes. But you’re also an idiot.”</p>
<p>“Gee, thanks. If I had known you were planning on being this kind I would’ve brought my thesaurus so I could insult you back.”</p>
<p>“The fact that you own one of those is insulting enough.”</p>
<p>Martín looks out of the window, tapping his nails against his bare knee and frowning. They don’t speak much for the rest of the drive, only for Alfonso to point out random spots he has memories (or trivia) of, and for Martín to respond to his stories with as much enthusiasm as he can muster up. It’s not his fault the sun puts him in a bad mood. </p>
<p>They arrive at the batting cages, Alfonso greeting the owner with a rough handshake and pulling Martín toward him. </p>
<p>“This is Martín Berrote, and he’s gonna make it to the big leagues.”</p>
<p>Martín rolls his eyes, swatting at Alfonso’s hand as he ruffles his hair. The owner raises an eyebrow and opens the gate, handing Martín a helmet and a bat. </p>
<p>Martín strokes his palm along the handle of the bat, frowning at the cool metal and twisting it in his hand a few times. It’s not too heavy, but Martín can already feel the ache in his arm that will most certainly flare up tonight. Alfonso positions him on a square and steps back. </p>
<p>“Just hit the balls.”</p>
<p>“Oh, is that what I’m here to do? I thought this was a ballet class,” Martín gripes, turning his body to face Alfonso. As he finishes his sentence, a ball whips past him, a loud bang on the safety mat behind him. He jumps. </p>
<p>“Rule number one. Never take your eyes off the ball.”</p>
<p>Martín holds the bat up, closing one of his eyes in nervous anticipation. Alfonso scolds him, his mouth never shutting. </p>
<p>“Eyes open.”</p>
<p>“Drop your shoulders.”</p>
<p>“Bend your knees, dig your heels into the ground.”</p>
<p>“Picture the ball hitting your bat.”</p>
<p>“Aim with your shoulders.”</p>
<p>“You have the helmet for a reason. Don’t be afraid of the ball.”</p>
<p>“I’m not afraid of the damn ball!” Martín calls, but still flinches when it flies at him. Alfonso sighs and gestures toward the owner to turn the machine off, then leans over the side of the gate. Martín sighs and moves toward him. </p>
<p>“What’s the issue here?”</p>
<p>“Nothing.” Martín shakes his head. The weight of the helmet sends a small wave of dizziness to his brain. </p>
<p>Alfonso makes a fist with his hand and knocks it against said helmet a few times. Martín winces at the noise, but finds there’s no pain. </p>
<p>“Alright, did you feel that?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“So it’s the noise?”</p>
<p>“I don’t like the machine.” Martín shrugs. Alfonso nods. </p>
<p>“Alright, well, the pitchers in real baseball won’t make that noise, so there’s not much to worry about.”</p>
<p>Martín blinks, holding his eyes shut for a beat too long and taking a deep breath. </p>
<p>“Do you want to go back and do a few more swings?”</p>
<p>“Sure. Just don’t put any money down on me hitting one,” Martín grumbles. He lets the bat drag on the ground and walks back to the square. </p>
<p>
  <em> Head up, chin up, shoulders back, knees bent, eyes open. </em>
</p>
<p>He inhales when he hears the noise of the ball flinging from the machine, except this time, he wills his body not to move. Martín swings the bat, a loud metal clang replacing the cushioned noise Martín has grown accustomed to. He exhales as his bat makes contact with the ball. It soars through the air, landing on the far end of the cage. Martín turns to Alfonso, grinning widely. </p>
<p>“You hit it!”</p>
<p>Martín throws the bat on the ground, laughing. “I think I should retire now.”</p>
<p>“No no no. Pick it up. We’re going until your arms fall off.”</p>
<p>Martín, for once, recognizes no bluff in his voice. They remain at the cages for the rest of the day, and when they drive home, Martín notes how it’s dark out. </p>
<p>“Are you coming to the bar tonight?”</p>
<p>“I think I’m just gonna go home and sleep.”</p>
<p>Alfonso nods, following Martín’s directions to his house. It’s a small figure, a couple windows shot and the paint peeling from the exterior, but Alfonso doesn’t mention anything. </p>
<p>“Same time tomorrow?”</p>
<p>“God, are you trying to kill me?” Martín groans. His arms feel similar to jello, and he can only imagine what his body will be like by morning. </p>
<p>“Fine. Get some rest, kid.”</p>
<p>Martín smiles, stepping out of the car and waving goodbye as he enters his home. He stares ahead at the poster on his otherwise lonely living room wall, a framed photo of Andrés de Fonollosa. His father had been rooting for the guy since he was in highschool, following along with his every move from behind newspapers and television screens. Fonollosa is only about 6 years older than him, but to Martín’s father, he was the son he never had. </p>
<p>Martín never found the strength to take down the poster after his father died, trying to keep any memory of his family alive when he’s all alone. The checkerboard countertops in the kitchen, his mother’s favourite, are off limits, knowing that if he were to scratch them up he would hate himself for it. But the poster is different, it’s a constant reminder that he never was what his father wanted.</p>
<p>He’s grown to hate the face of Andrés de Fonollosa. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>September 24th, 2007. Barcelona. </b>
</p>
<p>“You haven’t learned, huh? You do this again and again and soon, you’re just gonna break. And I’m not going to be here to fix you.”</p>
<p>Andrés de Fonollosa closes his eyes, trying to find peace in the nothingness that occurs from behind his eyelids. His wife, Maryanne, has a voice that could be replicated by scratching fingernails down a chalkboard, and just hearing it is enough to drive a man to madness. He swirls his wine in the glass and takes a sip. </p>
<p>“You’re not even listening to me!”</p>
<p>“You have yet to say anything of importance,” he drawls, taking a gulp of the wine and then placing it on the table. </p>
<p>“I can’t keep doing this, Andrés. I can’t.”</p>
<p>She was angry about one thing or another. In fact, her rage fuelled screaming occurred almost every day, and Andrés was getting better at keeping his face interested while his mind wanders elsewhere. It’s a dangerous game, but then again, he’s never been one to shy away from danger. </p>
<p>“I’m going to stay with my brother. He- I can’t be with you anymore.”</p>
<p>Andrés raises an eyebrow, hardly surprised at her words. He’s been expecting this for a while. </p>
<p>“I will send the papers to his address.”</p>
<p>She packs her bags, crying loudly, and Andrés finds he wants to paint her miserable face. He’s always liked when women cry over him. Their eyes get pink, a light red blush takes over their cheeks and noses, and Andrés tries not to get caught up on the art that is found within their smudged makeup and ruffled clothes. </p>
<p>“Goodbye, Andrés.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t respond, eyes downcast on the newspaper in front of him. It’s a report on their most previous game, where Andrés won the game by striking out for the first time in a while. Ever since his (minor) wrist injury, his pitching game has been off, but he has finally got the chance to redeem himself. </p>
<p>‘Andrés de Fonollosa- the new star.”</p>
<p>He finds he wants to hang it up on his wall. </p>
<p>Andrés watches Maryanne leave, his face contorted in a deep set frown. He’s not exactly disappointed she’s leaving, but on the other hand, it is still upsetting whenever women leave, especially one he vowed to spend the rest of his life with. </p>
<p>He doesn’t have much time to pity himself when his phone rings.</p>
<p>“Andrés?”</p>
<p>“Hello, Sergio.”</p>
<p>“We have an issue. Get down here whenever you can.”</p>
<p>Andrés groans, leaning his elbow on the table and massaging his temples. A low groan escapes his lips, already overwhelmed, though it’s only half past noon, and all he wants to do right now is go back to sleep. He pockets his keys and steps out of the house, grunting at the bright sunlight and blinking a couple times to regain focus. </p>
<p>The drive to Sergio’s is short, which is one of the reasons Andrés bought this house. Not only for its exquisite interior design, but because of the short trek to his brothers home, a small apartment that seems rather inadequate compared to his own but hey, he won’t judge him on his choices. </p>
<p>“What’s going on?”</p>
<p>“There is a huge press event tonight with tons of scouts. I have gotten an invitation for the two of us.”</p>
<p>Andrés raises an eyebrow. “I’m recovering from an injury, I’m not sure I will get picked out.”</p>
<p>“You’re the best pitcher in Barcelona-”</p>
<p>“That’s a lie and you know it.”</p>
<p>“You have the potential to be!” </p>
<p>Andrés rolls his eyes. “Sergio, I appreciate what you’re doing for me, but-“</p>
<p>“Listen to me. You can go tonight, chat it up with some scouts, pretend like your wrist is totally fine and hopefully get on a better team. You and I both know you could be doing so much better than you are right now.”</p>
<p>Andrés inhales. “She left me.”</p>
<p>“What- who?”</p>
<p>“Maryanne. She left.”</p>
<p>Sergio frowns, the shift in his muscles causing his glasses to slide down his nose slightly. At age 21, Sergio is already the most professional man Andrés has ever met, constantly booking meetings and coming to his games and trying to talk him up to everyone. His brother steps forward and pulls him into a quick hug. Andrés, never the one for physical comfort, pats Sergio’s back a couple times and pulls away. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Andrés.”</p>
<p>“I was expecting it to happen.”</p>
<p>“Hey, you’re only 23. You have time to find the right girl.”</p>
<p>Andrés sighs. “I know. I do not want pity, I just thought you should know.” </p>
<p>“No pity here. I’m sure you were just enough of an asshole to drive her away,” Sergio chuckles, the regular awkward voice of his doing wonders to calm Andrés’ worries. “Now, come on. Stop wallowing. Let’s get you into a suit.”</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>The venue isn’t large, rarely the size of his own home, but Andrés finds the weight on his shoulders seeping off as he smirks his way through conversations and sips at the drink that somehow keeps refilling itself in his hand. Sergio keeps an eye on him, hoping this isn’t just an excuse to get drunk, but Andrés finds he doesn’t have time to drown his sorrows, busy taking business cards and listening to propositions. </p>
<p>He finds himself thinking of Maryanne in this dull environment. She was never one for fancy restaurants and slow dancing, and Andrés briefly wonders how they even ended up together in the first place. A strange connection within the stars, maybe. </p>
<p>“- I’m just saying, more room for growth, more space for making friends.” A man, tailored in an ill fitting suit and gelled back hair, speaks up his team. </p>
<p>“You do not join a sports team simply to make friends,” Andrés responds, replacing the insults he has on his tongue with the bitterness of his wine. </p>
<p>“It’s a plus, though! Hear me out-“</p>
<p>Andrés lets his mind wander, eyes scanning across the room and landing on Sergio. He smiles a little and showcases his left pinky finger, an old gesture they created as children to communicate in crowds whenever they want to leave. Sergio groans quietly and makes his way over toward the two, putting on his business face. </p>
<p>“Good evening, sir. I’m afraid I have to take my client back.”</p>
<p>“Think about it, kid. Here’s my card.”</p>
<p>Andrés smiles and takes the paper, immediately crumpling it the second the man turns around again, walking down a hallway with Sergio. </p>
<p>“What was that about?”</p>
<p>“His voice was annoying.”</p>
<p>Sergio flares at him from underneath the thick rim of his glasses. “You can’t just weasel your way out of conversations because you’re annoyed, Andrés.”</p>
<p>“I can and I will. I have many calls to make, so we could possibly take the car? Or I could, and I’ll call you a cab later?”</p>
<p>“I have to stick around for a bit,” Sergio frowns. He adjusts his suit. “There’s a woman here.”</p>
<p>Andrés raises an eyebrow and smirks over his wine glass. “I’m impressed. Introduce me to her.”</p>
<p>“No, Andrés. You are intimidating.”</p>
<p>“I’m offended, hermanito. You think so low of me.”</p>
<p>“God, stop with your dramatics. Go home.”</p>
<p>Andrés grins. He brings his hand up to Sergio’s face and pats his cheek gently. “Give me a call when you get home.”</p>
<p>“Will do. Goodnight, Andrés.”</p>
<p>Andrés nods, turning on his heel and walking toward the front door. He appreciates the cool breeze that brushes against his face, holding his breath until his throat burns and then exhaling, trying to ground himself. It’s been a terrible day, but when he arrives back at his home and views the paper sitting on his table, he finds a small hint of hope. </p>
<p>‘The new star.’</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>October 3rd, 2007. Madrid. </b>
</p>
<p>Martín takes in a deep breath, squeezing his face in anticipation when the needle slides out of his hand. He’s never appreciated doctor’s offices, never liked the cool tiles of the ground and the smell of antiseptic and blood that tinges the air, but yet again, he finds himself sick. </p>
<p>Alfonso sits beside his table, reading the signs on the walls and humming gently. Martín relaxes once the needle is out and closes his eyes. </p>
<p>“You didn’t need to come.”</p>
<p>“It’s my fault, anyway. Might as well keep you some company.”</p>
<p>“What about the bar?”</p>
<p>“My niece is in town, she’s staying in charge. I think I’m going to pass it down to her once I retire.”</p>
<p>“You’re far from retiring, Alfonso.” </p>
<p>Alfonso, only 45, chuckles quietly. He’s always been an old soul, a man who instantly took Martín under his wing the first time he saw him beat up in an alleyway; Martín still remembers exactly where the first aid kit is located in the bar. </p>
<p>“How’re you feeling?”</p>
<p>“Fine,” Martín coughs once, testing out the lung pain.  “I can breathe better.”</p>
<p>“You gotta tell me when I’m overworking you.”</p>
<p>“We have less than a year until the regular season, so you have to overwork me to actually have a shot.”</p>
<p>Alfonso grunts. The team on Pamplona took in a different rookie, which is understandable, given the fact that Martín still flinches when he bats. They’ve tried him out in many positions, seeing how fast he can run and how accurately he can catch. So far, nothing is working. </p>
<p>“You’re gonna get on a team, kid. Even if it’s just a beer league.”</p>
<p>“Just sign me up for little league. That’s how old I look when I have to use this piece of shit.” Martín glares down at the offending product, a blue inhaler, and finds he wants to throw it at the satisfyingly decorned wall. The doctor told him to take a puff whenever he couldn’t breathe right, and apparently, that would simply put an end to all of his issues. </p>
<p>“You’re 17, you could still make little league.”</p>
<p>Martín redirects his rude stare to Alfonso, rolling his eyes. </p>
<p>“You wanna come back home with me after?”</p>
<p>While Alfonso isn’t fully aware of his living situation, he definitely knows Martín is alone. In fact, he was acquaintances with his parents before they died, never too much of a fan, but always greeting them with a kind smile. The man doesn’t appreciate having to send a teenager home to an empty house, so more often than not, Martín stays at his house. He tells himself it’s only because the distance between the batting cages is much smaller from Alfonso's house. </p>
<p>“If that’s okay.”</p>
<p>“Of course it’s okay. I landed you in the hospital after all.”</p>
<p>“This isn’t a hospital, this is the same walk in clinic I’ve been going to since I was a child.”</p>
<p>“The doctors said they haven’t seen you since you were 12.”</p>
<p>“Well, maybe they forgot.”</p>
<p>Martín has never been careful, never the type to duck out of making insane memories due to the small fact that he could die from sustaining life threatening injuries. In fact, more often than not, Martín will attempt to injure himself, liking the bruises he makes on his legs or the scars that dot his forearms. Marks last longer than his memory. </p>
<p>That doesn’t stop him from blaming the lack of doctor visits to his adolescent forgetfulness.</p>
<p>“When you’re better, I want to take you to a real field. A few of my friends will come by and we can play a real game.”</p>
<p>Martín nods. “Well, technically I’m better now-“</p>
<p>“You rest for two days, then we see how you feel.”</p>
<p>“I forgot how exhausting it is to have somebody care about my wellbeing.”</p>
<p>“I’ll ignore that due to how pitiful it sounded.” Alfonso smirks. The nurse, a pretty young thing, enters his room, adorned with a clipboard. </p>
<p>“You’re all free to go.” She smiles kindly. Martín nods and stands, Alfonso catching his arm when he stumbles a little. </p>
<p>“You should’ve gotten her number,” Alfonso scolds once they’re in the car. Martín only shrugs in response and changes the subject. </p>
<p>“So, I’m now a sad asthmatic?”</p>
<p>“If that’s how you want to put it, sure.”</p>
<p>He glares at Alfonso, coughing a couple times and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. They arrive at his house, the couch already built into a bed from the last time he stayed over, and Martín plops his bag on the ground and sits. </p>
<p>“What do you want for dinner?”</p>
<p>“I’m just gonna go to sleep. Thanks, though.”</p>
<p>Alfonso gives him a smile. “Goodnight, Martín.”</p>
<p>“G’nite.”</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>The baseball diamond is already filled with a group of people, Martín and Alfonso obviously the last to come. They place their bags in the dugout and make their way toward home plate where everyone else is talking. </p>
<p>“This is Martín.”</p>
<p>Martín greets everyone, all smiles and polite small talk, trying to mask his insecurity by cracking jokes. He knows he’s not good at this yet, and by the looks of it, these men have been playing for decades. </p>
<p>“Where’s Sam?”</p>
<p>“His wife got sick, he had to stay home to watch the kids.”</p>
<p>Alfonso frowns. “Who’s pitching?”</p>
<p>“Can the kid do it?”</p>
<p>Martín’s head shoots up, his eyebrows raised, and automatically knows he’s screwed. Within the last couple months, they haven’t even begun to try pitching. Still, Alfonso nods and smiles. </p>
<p>“Of course he can.”</p>
<p>Alfonso walks him to the pitcher's mound, keeping his hand steady on Martín’s back. </p>
<p>“You’re gonna do fine. You know how to throw a ball.”</p>
<p>“I know that.”</p>
<p>“Good. So, I’m going to be the back catcher. You’re going to attempt to throw it right through the batter and into my glove.”</p>
<p>Martín nods, nervously chewing on his lip. “How do I throw it through the batter?”</p>
<p>“You know how the machine sometimes looks like it’s gonna send the ball higher than it is, so you swing, but you end up being way off?”</p>
<p>Martín scoffs. “Never way off,” he mumbles. </p>
<p>“That’s what you’re going to do. It’s all about strategy.”</p>
<p>That, for some reason, kicks him into gear. He takes a moment after Alfonso leaves to measure out the distance between him and the batter, trying to find the best possible square to throw the ball to. Once he figures out all the easy math, the hard part is throwing it. </p>
<p>Martin takes in a breath, positioning his stance so he can get the balance he needs to toss the ball with enough strength and incline to make it to where he needs it to go. Graphs display in his mind, and he finds its correct to lean his weight on his back leg and then transfer it when releasing the ball. </p>
<p>Alfonso bends down, his knees at an angle and his glove right where Martín needs it to be. Martín follows the instructions in his mind, timing it out, and swings his arm, releasing the ball at the last possible second and watches as the batter swings. </p>
<p>The batter misses. </p>
<p>Martín blinks.</p>
<p>Alfonso takes his helmet off, grinning widely. “Just like that! Now do two more!”</p>
<p>Martín nods, following the same pattern as he did before, easily getting him out. Alfonso keeps his mouth shut, sending in batter after batter, all with the same outcome of Martín striking them out. In the two hours they play for, he doesn’t miss once. </p>
<p>“Where the hell did you find this kid?” Angel, one of his old college friends who just striked out, turns to Alfonso. He feels his heart swell with pride. </p>
<p>“He comes to my bar a lot.”</p>
<p>“How old is he?”</p>
<p>“17.”</p>
<p>Angel grins. “Well, if you keep up the training, I know a few guys who have connections. Tell him to give me a call in a couple months.”</p>
<p>Martín watches the interaction, bringing his inhaler to his lips and pressing down on the plastic. Alfonso pats Angel's shoulder as they leave, walking over to Martín and pulling him into a rough hug.</p>
<p>“How the hell did you do that?”</p>
<p>Martín shrugs, pulling back and running a hand through his sweaty hair. “I did the math.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>December 14th, 2007. Barcelona. </b>
</p>
<p>Andrés wakes up to frantic knocking on his door. He groans, sitting up and stretching out, my feeling the bones in his shoulders crack, letting out a small grunt as he walks to the door, the cool tiles under his bare feet keeping him sane. He opens the door. </p>
<p>“Sergio?”</p>
<p>“Andrés, I- I messed up.”</p>
<p>Andrés furrows his eyebrows and checks his watch. It’s well past 3 in the morning. “Come in.”</p>
<p>“You- do you remember the girl I met at the party, the one from a couple of months ago?”</p>
<p>Andrés nods, pulling Sergio in and closing the door. He yawns, rubbing his eyes. </p>
<p>“She.. she just called me. She’s pregnant, Andrés.”</p>
<p>Andrés blinks. “It’s yours?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>Sergio crumbles, falling forward into Andrés and wrapping his arms around him. Andrés follows suit, holding his brother tightly. </p>
<p>“It’s gonna be okay.”</p>
<p>“I can’t be a father, Andrés, I’m 21!”</p>
<p>“You’ve never been 21, Sergio. You’ve never been young. You’re responsible enough and I already know you’re going to be an amazing father.”</p>
<p>“I can’t have a kid..”</p>
<p>Andrés squeezes him once, then pulls back and cups his chin gently. “You’re going to be okay. Besides, I now have the opportunity to be a fun uncle, so I have faith that I can also be here to help.”</p>
<p>Sergio exhales loudly, wiping his eyes. “I’m.. I’m sorry for waking you up, I just didn’t know where else to go.”</p>
<p>“Don’t ever apologize for coming to me, hermanito.” Andrés brings his hand up and fixes Sergio’s hair. “Now, you can sleep in the guest room, if you want.”</p>
<p>Sergio shifts his weight on his feet. “What if I slept in your room? You know, like when we used to have sleepovers.”</p>
<p>Andrés smiles gently. He knows how fragile Sergio can be, always trying to have a tough facade, sniping through the sharks and those who want to hurt Andrés, but deep down, Andrés can always see the kid in him. The nerdy, 4’11, talkative boy he used to be. “Of course. Go get changed.”</p>
<p>Even though he is an adult, Andrés will never stop protecting his baby brother. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>“So, who's the lucky woman?”</p>
<p>“Her name is Raquel,” Sergio responds over breakfast the next morning. Andrés has prepared eggs with toast, their signature meal whenever the two were home alone as children. </p>
<p>“Invite her over for dinner tonight.”</p>
<p>Sergio frowns. “Why?”</p>
<p>“I want to meet her.”</p>
<p>“We aren't- I haven’t even seen her since the party.”</p>
<p>“I’m not saying you two have to get married, I’m simply inviting her over so I can meet the mother of your child.”</p>
<p>Sergio exhales, rubbing his temples lightly. “I’ll give her a call.”</p>
<p>That night, Andrés prepares dinner, setting up the table neatly and dressing himself in a nice suit. Sergio is a nervous mess, so Andrés forces a drink down his throat, attempting to soothe the man. </p>
<p>“It’s going to be okay.”</p>
<p>“You can’t get all- dramatic and scary, okay? She’s afraid too.”</p>
<p>“I promise I won’t interrogate your girlfriend.”</p>
<p>Sergio swats at him, rolling his eyes and rushing to the door when the doorbell rings. Andrés adjusts his suit and walks over to stand behind Sergio to greet her. </p>
<p>Raquel is a pretty woman. She has long hair, nice lips, and is wearing a professional looking pantsuit. She hugs Sergio and kisses his cheek. </p>
<p>“Sergio, nice to see you again.”</p>
<p>“You too- I mean, it’s nice to see you, also.”</p>
<p>Andrés rolls his eyes, patting Sergio’s shoulder gently. </p>
<p>“Lovely to meet you, Ms…”</p>
<p>“Murillo. But Raquel is fine. And you are?” She holds her hand out. Andrés brings it up to his lips gently. </p>
<p>“Andrés de Fonollosa.”</p>
<p>Raquel raises her eyebrows, stepping inside of the house and looking around. “You have a lovely home.”</p>
<p>“Thank you.” Andrés smiles. He leads her to the dining room and pulls a chair out for her. Raquel sits, patting Andrés’ arm and smiling thankfully. From this angle, he can see the small baby bump, not enough to be seen by a stranger, but noticeable enough through Andrés’ eyes. Sergio awkwardly shuffles to the table and sits next to her. </p>
<p>Andrés watches them, deciding to leave them to talk on their own and heading out into the kitchen.  He stirs the pasta sauce, wincing at the shooting pain in his wrist. </p>
<p>“Shit.”</p>
<p>He stretches it out for a minute, knowing he has to ice it tonight, and starts serving the food to Sergio and Raquel. He can feel the tenseness in the air and tries to clear it. </p>
<p>“So, Raquel,” he turns to the woman and smiles. “What do you do for a living?”</p>
<p>“I’m in university, studying law.” </p>
<p>Andrés raises an eyebrow. “That is thrilling. Do you find the workload manageable? A friend of mine dropped out of law school a few years back.”</p>
<p>“It’s tough, but I handle it well. You play baseball, if I’m correct?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Best pitcher in Barcelona.”</p>
<p>“Christ, Sergio. Stop spewing that.”</p>
<p>“You have a wrist injury.” Raquel leans back in her chair slightly. Andrés narrows his eyes. </p>
<p>“I sprained it a while back, it’s all healed now.”</p>
<p>“You’re right hand dominant, no? Throughout this meal you’ve been taking breaks in between eating to stretch it out, and your face moves in pain whenever you twist your pasta. It’s not healed, is it?”</p>
<p>Sergio turns to look at him, tilting his head. Andrés glares at Raquel, but finds that he is more impressed than angry, so he relaxes his face and puts a smile back on. </p>
<p>“Everybody has corrections they need to make.”</p>
<p>Raquel smirks, putting more spaghetti in her mouth and wiping the corners of her lips with a napkin. </p>
<p>“I like this one, Sergio.”</p>
<p>Sergio twists in his chair. “You didn’t tell me your wrist was still messed up!”</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>“Merry Christmas.”</p>
<p>Andrés drops his arm, turning to the side to look at Sergio. </p>
<p>“You too, hermanito.”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to practice 24/7, Andrés. Raquel is coming over soon.”</p>
<p>Andrés grunts, throwing another pitch that would easily be classified as a ball. He takes a step back and brings his fingers up to the bridge of his nose. </p>
<p>“I won’t be able to make it tonight.”</p>
<p>“Andrés…”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Sergio. I have to train.”</p>
<p>“There are hundreds of events where you’ll be scouted out, I promise. But this is Christmas.”</p>
<p>“Do I have a guaranteed spot on any team right now?” </p>
<p>“You can join a beer league or-“</p>
<p>“Answer the question.”</p>
<p>“No. You don’t.”</p>
<p>“Exactly. And I won’t unless I’m the best they can find. And that won’t happen unless I train.”</p>
<p>Sergio frowns, the sadness in his face being replaced with anger. It’s always been whimsical watching Sergio’s emotions change. The man is so expressive; most of the time it’s more entertaining than any program on television. </p>
<p>“Fine. I’ll just take Raquel back to my apartment.”</p>
<p>Andrés turns, picking up another ball out of the bucket and trying to throw the perfect pitch. When he doesn’t make it, he tries again and again. When he turns back, Sergio is gone. </p>
<p>Whatever. Christmas is for children, anyway. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>January 1st, 2008. Madrid. </b>
</p>
<p>Martín wakes up with a headache and a dry mouth. His senses come back slowly until he gathers his bearings and sits up. </p>
<p>“God, what the hell happened?”</p>
<p>Alfonso raises an eyebrow, handing him a large glass of water and a couple of pills. “You got drunk.”</p>
<p>Martín groans, swallowing the pills and sipping on his water. “I did?”</p>
<p>“Mhm. I guess you went to a party. Came to the bar in the middle of the night and I brought you home to crash here.”</p>
<p>He nods, rubbing his eyes. “I feel like shit.” </p>
<p>“Well, you better get over it soon, because we’re playing today.”</p>
<p>Martín groans again, accepting Alfonso’s hand and dragging himself off of the couch. Alfonso pats his back a couple times before heading off into the kitchen. </p>
<p>“I should just move here.”</p>
<p>“You life for free, kid. If you move into you’ll have to pay rent.”</p>
<p>“I can get a job!”</p>
<p>“Sure.” </p>
<p>Martín frowns. He makes his way to the bathroom and flicks the light on, wincing at the light. Something switches in his stomach, and he’s down in a second, retching over the toilet and remaining there for a couple minutes longer. He wipes his mouth and stands, grumbling at his appearance. Martín takes a puff of his inhaler and rubs his eyes. Before he can whine over his eye bags and blotchy face, he splashes cold water over it, the shock bringing him out of the unfamiliar haze. He’s not quite sure where he even went last night. </p>
<p>“Are you done in there, princess?”</p>
<p>“Jesus, give me a minute.” Martín takes his toothbrush out of the cabinet and brushes his teeth, too hungover to swell at the fact that Alfonso keeps a spare brush for him, then walks out of the bathroom and changes in Alfonso’s room. </p>
<p>Martín isn’t <em> short </em>. He’s a little below average, and maybe he has to roll up the sleeves of Alfonso’s shirts and the legs of his pants whenever he borrows his clothes, but he is not short. And he’ll beat the shit out of anyone who tells him he is. </p>
<p>He and Alfonso drive to the diamond, Martín whining about his headache and body pain, but still stumbling up to the pitcher's mound with minor injury. </p>
<p>“What’s up with Rocket today?” </p>
<p>“Kid got his first hangover. Take it easy on him.” </p>
<p>The guys laugh, warming up. Martín stretches his arms out and throws a couple practice shots, Alfonso catching them all easily from his place behind the invisible batter. </p>
<p>Once the game begins, Martín finds it endearing that although he’s barely conscious, he only misses a handful of pitches, which gets pointed out by Angel and Martín blushes over their praise. </p>
<p>Angel approaches him after the game, draping a hand over the nape of his neck and leading him somewhere near the dugout. </p>
<p>“Listen, I have connections.”</p>
<p>Martín furrows his eyebrows. “Good for you..?”</p>
<p>Angel looks over toward Alfonso and frowns. “Look, I hate to make this offer, but I see talent in you. You won’t get far with Alfonso, kid. He’s a bartender.”</p>
<p>Martín steps back in offence and moves Angel’s hand off of his neck. “What are you suggesting?”</p>
<p>“You spend some more time with me. I can get you into a great team the second you turn 18.”</p>
<p>“I think I’m good with Alfonso.”</p>
<p>“That’s what he wants you to think. He wants to make you believe that you’re going somewhere with him.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t start playing because I want to be on a team, Angel. I started playing because Alfonso suggested it and it turned out to be fun. I thought all his friends were here on the same sentiment but I guess not.”</p>
<p>“Hey-”</p>
<p>“No, we’re done here. Thank you for the offer, but I’ll pass.” Martín turns on his heel and starts walking back to Alfonso. </p>
<p>“You’re going nowhere!” Angel calls. Martín rolls his eyes and holds his hand up, middle finger on clear display. He enters Alfonso’s car, still fuming. </p>
<p>“What’s with the face?”</p>
<p>“Angel tried to buy me off of you.”</p>
<p>Alfonso stares at him for a moment before laughing. “He’s always been a shark. Brought up the offer months ago, but I never told you.”</p>
<p>Martín clicks his seatbelt on and crosses his arms. “I don’t want to work with him. I’m good with you.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. You sure are.” Alfonso pats his knee, smiling proudly. “I know I’m not doing much right now, but I swear, you’re going to blow everyone away the second you step up to pitch for the first time in a real game.”</p>
<p>“Does that mean beer league?”</p>
<p>“Of course. Do you know how many scouts come to beer league games?”</p>
<p>“So I have a chance?” Martín tries to keep the eagerness out of his tone, but Alfonso catches it anyway. </p>
<p>“You have more than a chance, Martín. I promise, by this time in a few years, you’ll be on every TV screen in every sports bar across the world.”</p>
<p>“Including yours?”</p>
<p>Alfonso smirks. “Maybe I’ll keep mine on the pros.”</p>
<p>Martín swats at him playfully and closes his eyes, trying to imagine himself big. </p>
<p>‘Martín Berrote, Spain’s new greatest.’</p>
<p>
  <em> Suck it, Fonollosa.  </em>
</p>
<p><br/>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>March 3rd, 2015. Barcelona. </b>
</p>
<p>“You got drafted.”</p>
<p>Andrés stops. “Where?”</p>
<p>Sergio shrugs. “Nothing big, just Barcelona Eagles.”</p>
<p>Andrés almost feels his jaw hit the floor. He’s been playing on any team he can get on, but a couple of weeks ago, he had a heavy conversation with a scout about his future in baseball, and now, he’s on the biggest team in Barcelona. </p>
<p>He swallows, trying to keep his pride down. “Well, we better call dad.”</p>
<p>Sergio drops the act, rushing over to him and hugging him tightly. Andrés squeezes his eyes shut and inhales deeply. </p>
<p>“It’s all playing out now, Andrés.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t reply, too overwhelmed to speak. Sergio understands. He always does. <br/><br/></p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>March 20th, 2015. Madrid. </b>
</p>
<p>“You see the news?”</p>
<p>Martín rolls his eyes, finishing the beer in his glass and looking down at the newspaper. It’s all anyone’s been talking about, on every news channel and every billboard. Andrés de Fonollosa’s face is haunting him once again. </p>
<p>“It’ll be you soon.”</p>
<p>Martín only stares down at the paper. Alfonso sighs and runs a hand through his hair, cupping his cheek. </p>
<p>“I promise.” Martín doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to. The paper says everything.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>uhhh if u saw me delete this chapter and add like 2000 words and a different ending, no u didn’t &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>April 13th, 2015. Madrid.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s drunk. It’s midday and Martín is already drunk, walking through the streets of Madrid and attempting to shut his mind up. The Barcelona Eagles are playing their first game tonight, and Martín already is well aware that he won’t be able to stomach watching the game sober.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you alright?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín blinks, stumbling into the side of the store. He’s usually able to fight back the drunkenness, but he hasn’t eaten in over a day, and the floor seems to be dipping under his feet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“‘M good- it’s- is all good-“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“C’mon, it’s not safe to be.. not sober out here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín frowns, not protesting as a hand wraps around his skinny wrist, pulling him inside. He allows himself to be manhandled into sitting down at a table, pliant like putty in the hands of a stranger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let’s get you some water, huh? You’re pretty out of it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín lays his face down on the cool metal of the table, relishing at the way it fights off the wicked warmth of his cheeks. He briefly considers taking all his clothes off and pressing his entire body against the table, but before he can, there are fingers running through his sweaty hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sit up, there we go. Good.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín feels his back against the chair before he realizes he’s moved, opening his mouth a crack when a glass presses against it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Drink all of this, okay? I’ll take care of you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín blinks, trying to make out the blurry face of the man in front of him. Whoever he is, he trusts him, and that’s scarier than anything else. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll take care of you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín wakes up a while later, sitting on the bathroom floor, his body cramping and his neck pulsating with discomfort. He grunts and leans over the toilet, holding his hair back with one hand while the other reaches down his throat, attempting to bring up the pain through his mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Somebody joins him on the bathroom floor, kneeling by his side and rubbing circles into his back. He groans, closing his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alfonso?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who’s that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where’s my- where’s my dad?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man frowns, wetting a cloth with tap water and holding it up to Martín’s forehead. “Do you want me to call him for you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait- what time is it? Where am I? Who… who are you? Jesus?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He chuckles, a nice deep sound that resonates in the bathroom. “No, not Jesus. My name is Hunter. You’re at my apartment, and it’s about 4 in the morning. You passed out yesterday at my diner, so I brought you home.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín lifts his head from the toilet bowl, leaning back against the wall of the bathroom. “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s no problem, really. May I ask why you were drinking at 3pm?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rough day.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hunter frowns, brushing a strand of hair off of his sticky forehead. “Do you want to shower and I can call your dad?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Well- he’s not.. he’s not my dad. But sure. Thanks. He’s uh- his number is in my phone. Alfonso.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course. I’ll explain everything. I’ll leave some clothes in the bedroom, okay? You take as long as you need.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín smiles a little, watching Hunter leave and stripping out of his clothes. He locks the door and starts the shower, humming to try and distract himself from the wicked hangover that leaves him wanting to lay on the shower floor and fall asleep again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>While he’s cleaning himself up, Hunter grabs Martín’s phone, looking through the very few contacts and clicking the one that reads ‘Alfonso’. He holds it up to his ear and listens to it ring a couple times.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Martín, what the hell? I’ve been calling you all night. Where are you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh, my name is Hunter.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hunter can hear shuffling on the other end of the phone. “Where is he?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I found him on the street yesterday, he was very drunk and upset. I brought him into my store to try and sober him up but he fell asleep, so I took him back to my apartment. He’s in the shower right now. Do you want me to text you the address?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That would be good. I’ll come pick him up right away.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hunter ends the call, typing in his address and sending it to the man on the phone. He hears the shower end and the footsteps of Martín walking around, obviously trying to find the bedroom. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Second door to your right.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín is quiet for a moment. “Thanks!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he emerges, he’s wearing all of Hunter's clothes, a pair of sweatpants and an old band shirt he hasn’t worn in weeks. Still, he resists the urge to make an offhand comment at his flustered appearance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, uh, did we.. did we do anything?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hunter furrows his eyebrows. “What- oh, no. Nothing happened. You’re very attractive, yes, but I would never take advantage of you like that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tension in Martín’s shoulders drop, and he lets out a small exhale of relief. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty cute too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hunter smiles. “Here, I’ll put my number in your phone. Maybe we can hang out one day when you’re not drunk.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín blushes all the way to the tips of his ears. “Sorry about that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be sorry. Just- don’t make a habit out of walking around under the influence. There are a lot of bad people out there.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín nods. “Thank you so much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It was no problem.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stare at each other for a moment, Martín finding himself getting lost in the other man’s eyes. He examines them for a moment, finding swirls of yellow among the hazelnut brown that fills his irises, the curve of his eyelashes and the way they reflect the glow of light from the living room, the perfect shape of his eyebrows-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín and Hunter both jump at the loud noise that erupts from the front door. Hunter stands still for a moment then walks to the door, opening it slowly. Alfonso rushes in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re a goddamn idiot.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín flinches as Alfonso grips the back of his neck, leading him out to the door. The man turns to Hunter and gives a small, forced smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for taking care of him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It was no issue at all. Stay safe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín doesn’t say a word until they’re in the car. “I’m my defense, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to hear it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the ride home, the number in his phone and the clothes on his body the only proof that the day really happened. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>April 13th, 2015. Barcelona. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hah!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrés groans loudly, cushioning his fall with the back of his arm. Paula stands over top of him and glares down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Get the death certificate. Time- 12:43 pm. Cause- tiny child’s fists.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’s being a baby.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“‘You’s’ is not a word. Don’t mumble when you speak.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Paula pouts and sits on his stomach, poking at his face. Andrés stays still for a moment before snapping his teeth, causing the 7 year old to yelp and pull her hand back, waiting a moment before giggling. He sits up and pokes at her arm annoyingly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should be getting ready.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrés rolls his eyes, picking Paula up and hurling her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “That’s rich, coming from you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sergio crosses his arms stubbornly, already mastering his unwavering glare. Andrés can see why he was chosen to coach their team. “What’s that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are constantly on my ass about training.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Two dollars in the swear jar,” Paula reminds. Andrés flicks her calf in warning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m just saying, you could pull a muscle. She’s not as light as she used to be.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t listen to him, Paula. You’re beautiful.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sergio’s mouth falls open. “I’m not- that’s not what I was saying. Put her down.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrés takes her back to her room, laying her on her bed and stretching out his back. “Go take a nap.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m 7. I don’t take naps.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t really care.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Paula frowns for a moment before shrugging her shoulders and closing her eyes. “Alright. G’nite, Uncle Andrés.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight, babe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrés turns off her light, closing her door and standing outside of it for a moment. He takes his phone out of his back pocket, excepting to get the time, but is instead greeted with incoming texts from the one and only group chat he is in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Barcelona Eagles </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Aníbal Cortés- </b>
  <span>guys what time do we have to be there tonight </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Daniel Ramos- </b>
  <span>are u kidding me </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Arturo Román- </b>
  <span>@</span>
  <span>Aníbal Cortés</span>
  <span> Are you stupid? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Matias Coño- </b>
  <span>uhh what does coach say Fonollosa?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Andrés de Fonollosa- </b>
  <span>Get there by 4pm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Aníbal Cortés- </b>
  <span>bruh </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Mirko Dragic-</b>
  <span> ‘bruh’????</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrés pockets his phone, wiping his thumb over his nose and leaning back against the counter. Sergio gives him a strange look. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s up with you today?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes. You’re acting.. friendly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, god forbid I’m kind to my niece.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re nervous,” Sergio points out. It isn’t a question, so Andrés feels no need to respond. He turns his back to his brother and grabs a glass, filling it up with tap water and raising an eyebrow as Sergio grins. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you nervous.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t you alert the media?” Andrés leans back against the counter, taking a couple sips of his water and twitching his nose. “Are you baking?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sergio, the only person Andrés knows who bakes when he is stressed, is currently checking on a batch of muffins in the oven. “Hey, I never said I’m not nervous either.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh good, why don’t you pull up a couch and tell me all about your feelings.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sergio rolls his eyes. “I think you would benefit from seeing a therapist.” He pulls the tray out, placing it over a cooling rack and waving some smoke around with his glove. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think you would benefit by shutting up and giving me a muffin.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They’re still hot.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrés grunts and grabs one. He feels the heat seep through his fingertips, but since he has never been one to accept defeat, he unwraps the baked good and takes a bite. Sergio sighs and looks over at the clock. “Go ice your arm.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Well, it’s been a while since we’ve been back here, wouldn’t you say?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Too long, too long. Long enough to replace half of the team.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Arturo Román takes the award for veteran player this year. When do you think his career will come to an end, Jim?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hopefully not anytime soon, Scott. Coming back alongside Román is the Dragic cousins, Bogotá, and Ramos. Let’s look at the new additions.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Aníbal Cortés on first.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Well; they just keep getting younger. He’s not any older than 23, if I’m correct. Joining him on the baby train is Matias Coño. I gotta say, I’m a bit sceptical of their age. Never have two kids fresh out of college been drafted to the Eagles.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“These kids have skill, Jim.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I hope they do. What about Andrés de Fonollosa?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You know, it’s always tricky getting a new pitcher. The fact is, the team has to trust the pitcher, and that comes from years of training that I’m worried Fonollosa doesn’t possess.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I agree to disagree, Scott. The biggest challenge here is the new coach.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sergio Marquina, that's right.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“All I’m gonna say about this one is that he better hold up to the standard Salva left. There are some big shoes to fill, but I hope this kid can manage it.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What about Ramos?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, right. Daniel Ramos joins us this season, alongside his loyal older cousin.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m looking forward to seeing their chemistry on the field.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Speaking of chemistry, I know the fans are looking forward to seeing us back together again.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Slow your roll, Jim. This is about the game, not us.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“A man can dream. Now, we turn our attention back to the field, where Sergio Marquina is gathering the team together. Let’s pray for a steady first landing.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>June 3rd, 2015. Madrid. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín stares at his reflection, not being able to make eye contact with Alfonso as the man stands behind him. He sighs and grabs the razor, bringing it up to his cheek, before Alfonso slaps him on the shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. You don’t do it that way.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s all the same! The hair will come off either way.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is something most men learn as teenagers, no?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t learn the luxury of shaving. Besides, I think the hair is a good look on me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alfonso meets his eyes in the mirror. “Kid, you look like a peach.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s offensive.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín lets go of the razor as Alfonso takes it from him, leaning his back against the counter. “Easy. Like that. Downward. Now, tell me about Hunter.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín is thankful for the shaving cream on his face, otherwise Alfonso would’ve created novel worthy insults about his blushing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s good. We’re good. I think.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is he your boyfriend?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ve been on like 5 dates. Nothing is official yet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alfonso raises an eyebrow. “So, does not being official mean I shouldn’t hear all that racket coming from your room?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín flinches, hissing through his teeth as the razor slices his jaw. He brings a finger to it and narrows his eyes when blood coats the digit. “You made me slit my throat.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“For the love of all things holy, stop being so dramatic.” Alfonso rips a piece of toilet paper off the roll and sticks it on the wound, rolling his eyes at Martín’s pouting. “Keep going. You need to look sharp for the game tomorrow.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I should just pay someone to do this for me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Alfonso grunts and takes the razor again, finishing off the small area Martín hasn’t gotten to. “With what money, kid?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll sell my body.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As if anyone would buy that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín rolls his eyes, but can’t help but feel loved as Alfonso strokes his thumb over the wound on his jaw, before parting his cheek twice and exiting the bathroom. He examines himself once he’s alone, smiling softly at the mirror. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He finally recognizes himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>June 3rd, 2015. Barcelona.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you packed?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going, Sergio.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrés stares down at his suitcase, kicking it with his socked foot. Sergio shakes his head and kneels down, digging through the bag, content to find it filled with clothes and overnight necessities. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re gonna be late.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the only time out of the summer that they are going 2 weeks without a game, and Sergio decided it would be the perfect time to find rookies for next year's roster. So, with a suitcase and a bad attitude, Andrés de Fonollosa is off to Madrid on a sweaty train filled with travellers and the stench of sweat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why are we doing this, Sergio. We can find people in our area.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because everyone here thinks they have talent, Andrés. When we go into less fortunate neighborhoods, we see the people with true passion for the sport come through. Think about it, we have been handed every opportunity on a silver pl-“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrés’ head falls onto Sergio’s shoulder, but in the rare moment of weakness, he doesn’t bother moving his brother. Plus, if he’s forcing him on a long train ride, the least he can do is let him sleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>June 4th, 2015. Madrid. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ll do great today, Rocket.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín doesn’t respond, stretching his arms and taking a minute to breathe. He always gets worked up before games, even if there’s nothing on the line. But today, something feels different. More permanent. But hey, maybe it’s just the fact that he shaved his face that’s throwing him off. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He steps up to the mount, eyes scanning the crowd quickly. They don’t usually have </span>
  <em>
    <span>tons</span>
  </em>
  <span> of viewers, usually kids and older men who want to give Martín life advice, but he makes do. It’s practice for when he’s in the big league, is what Alfonso always tells him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Angel takes the position as back catcher. The two have fallen into a comfortable state of peace around each other now, which is an improvement from a few years ago. Plus, at least he isn’t a teenager anymore, which means he’s treated with respect by the majority of their team. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The game is slow at first. He makes perfect pitches, of course, but he can’t shake the feeling of difference out of his mind. Eventually, he misses one pitch, and hears the familiar woosh of the ball coming toward him. Except this time, he doesn’t have a bat to hit it with. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín falls to the ground before he even registers the pain, one of his hands shooting out to hold his nose, the other cushioning his body weight from hitting the mount at full capacity. He can briefly hear the bat being dropped and the sound of footsteps rushing toward him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Berrote!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He winces, keeping steady pressure to his nose and attempting to pull himself up. When a hand darts out to grab his arm, Martín swats it away, forcing himself off the ground. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jesus Christ. That’s broken.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not broken.” Martín presses both of his index fingers to either side of his nose, pushing harshly. When he feels a bone shift, he exhales, stumbling a little. He can feel the weight of eyes on him, each and every person in the stands glued to him, trying to figure out his next move. He debates it for a moment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s dealt with worse injuries. Hell, he’s had more broken noses than stubbed toes, he can manage this. Martín takes a steady breath and inhales sharply through his nose, pinching it to stop the bleeding. Angel frowns. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“C’mon kid, just sit this one out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine. Just give me a second.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wipes at the blood with the side of his arm, twitching his face a couple times and blinking the tears out of his eyes. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s that nose injuries always cause tears. Even if they don’t hurt. (Not saying this doesn’t hurt like a bastard, but the point still stands.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín slowly puts his glove back on, stumbling back to the pitching mouth. He can feel the dry blood cake under his nose, and the stickiness of it on his arm, but he finds he doesn’t care much. Martín ignores Alfonso’s worried glaces from the dugout, catching a ball from the umpire and stretching for a moment, nodding toward Angel to confirm his throw. As the ball makes perfect contact with his glove, Martín allows himself to relax, pleased to know a broken nose won’t slow down his performance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>June 4th, 2015. Madrid. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sometime during the last hour, Andrés has stopped pouting about watching beer league, and instead is admiring the pitcher. Sergio only briefly regrets dragging him out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want that one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is not an auction, Andrés.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Make it an auction. I want him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Down, boy. Relax for a minute. He’s not going anywhere.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want him, Sergio.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sergio slaps the side of his thigh, watching the kid intently as he immediately recovers from the facial wound and throws a perfect curveball. It’s almost inhumane, the way he throws. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You have to agree.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course I agree, Andrés. He’s incredible. But he’s young.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He can’t be younger than 20.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He looks 18.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He has a baby face, maybe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Give him another year and we’ll meet with him, okay? I’ll even send him a personal invitation to a party I’ll host.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrés is silent for a couple minutes. “I’m gonna speak to him after the game.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s not a good idea.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sergio doesn’t fight him anymore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rest of the game is uneventful. The team with the golden pitcher wins, of course, and Andrés finds himself itching to talk to the boy. He ditches Sergio and weaves through the crowd, finding the boy throwing his stuff into a bag hastily while chatting with an older gentleman. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re such an idiot, Martín. You probably have a concussion.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I feel fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, for now! You’re off for the rest of the week.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s so unfair.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re 25 now Martín, stop acting like a stupid teenager.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrés clears his throat, interrupting the blossoming argument between the two men. They both turn to look at him, starstruck in their own ways. Andrés puts on a flashy smirk and walks closer, sticking a hand out to the kid. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m Andrés de Fonollosa-“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know who you are.” He makes a show of avoiding his handshake, leaning down and swinging a bag over his shoulder. The older man grips the back of his neck like a puppy and fake smiles at Andrés.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alfonso Ramerez. This is Martín Berrote.Nice to meet you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrés nods in greeting, watching Alfonso leave him alone with Martín. He clears his throat again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re a good pitcher.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I hear that a lot.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re good, but you could be better.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín stops. He’s only ever used to being complimented on his skill, nobody except for Alfonso lowering his ego down from the cloud it’s soaring on. “Yeah, as if you’re any better.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am.” Andrés flexes his wrist, wincing slightly. “Used to be.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you want?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I want you on my team.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín raises an eyebrow. “The season is halfway done.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Next year.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín sniffs, only to hiss in pain at the stinging through his nose. “Listen, Fonollosa. I have no interest being your little assistant. I’m better than anyone else in this town, and I don’t want to be dragged away to be TV bait.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrés raises an eyebrow. “I like your bite.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martín moves to push past him, but he holds a hand up, stopping the boy in his tracks. “You’re what, 25, I heard? You wouldn’t be the youngest on our team. Plus, although your maturity levels are critically low, nothing a little training won’t fix. But hey, give me a call when you think it over.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrés holds out a business card, the rough calluses of Martín’s fingers brushing against his and leaving a warm feeling throughout his hand. He briefly wonders if Martín feels it too, but before he can ask, another man is beside him, holding his neck similar to the way Alfonso did, but this one with more possession. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s going on here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just chatting.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man looks Andrés up and down. “My name is Hunter, I’m a huge fan.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Andrés shakes his hand, smiling gently. “You know how to reach me,” he says to Martín, before spinning on his heel and walking toward Sergio again, lacking a business card but accepting the new feeling of hope in his body. He doesn’t see the way Hunter crumples up his business card and pockets it, he’s too busy thinking of the future  </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>okayyy i want to apologize for switching the storyline up, i just couldn’t find the motivation to write and when i did, i didn’t want to go in the direction i had planned to go. in other news, i missed talking to you guys, so please let me know what you think or just give me a simple hello and ill respond as soon as i can. thanks for reading and being so patient with me.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i updated the tags, so trigger warning for an abusive relationship! nothing too graphic but if that sort of thing triggers you please don’t feel obligated to read. stay safe &lt;33</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>November 18th, 2015. Madrid. </b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hunter wants me to move in with him.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alfonso raises his eyebrows, taking a sip of wine and leaning back on his chair. “... and?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I’m going to.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The older man hums. “You two are moving pretty quick, huh.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess. It’s been a few months. Plus, I’d feel better if I knew you weren’t paying for me to live here anymore. I’ll… relieve you of some money.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not causing me any problems, Martín. I am happy when you’re here. But, you are a grown man, if you want to move out, I am supportive.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Martín shuffles on his feet. For the first time in years, he feels uncomfortable with Alfonso. The two have always moved in stride, Martín venturing off to explore and Alfonso pulling him back just when he needed to, before the boy got hurt, but now, he’s sending his kid off, and the warm room has never felt so cold. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m proud of you, Martín.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Martín looks toward the man who’s grown to become his father figure. He’s never believed he needs a dad, but now that he’s used to having one, Martín is not sure how he’s gonna manage going to sleep without Alfonso in the room next to him, usually humming along to the record player he insists on keeping or silently berating the sports reporter on the news. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He does know. Alfonso rarely verbalizes his approval, but it’s shown in everything he does. The way he nods toward Martín before rambling off on a list of the things he did wrong after every baseball game, the times he helps him ice his arm at 2 in the morning, the scary number of times he has had to pick the boy up when he’s drunk. He doesn’t say it, but it’s made clear every single day.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, kid, let’s get packing, hey?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>November 23rd, 2015. Barcelona. </b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you thinking about?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sergio kicks at Andrés’ ankle, a frown on his face. The two are sitting at the dinner table, Paula and Raquel in the girls room, preparing for her bedtime routine. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The boy from Madrid.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Andrés. That was months ago. Please just… get him out of your head. He’s too young for you anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus, Sergio. I don’t want to marry the kid, I want him on my team.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Our team,” Sergio corrects. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah. Our team. Whatever.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You have a bit of a god complex. I’m afraid you’re letting this get to your head.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Andrés doesn’t reply, opening his notebook and scribbling down some ideas. “I think we should host a party.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“For?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Rookies. Like the ones I would go to. I have a big house, I could use it to our advantage and build our team. We played with the bare minimum last year, it would be beneficial to have some extra players.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Extra players being the boy from Madrid?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I will invite him, but it’s up to him whether he wants to come.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Just- wait until after Christmas to send our invitations. I don’t want you getting in over your head.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Andrés stands, stopping to mess Sergio’s hair up with one hand before walking back to Paula's room. Raquel gives him an exhausted look and turns back to her daughter. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, Paula, Uncle Andrés will read you a story.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Andrés raises an eyebrow but doesn’t complain. Raquel presses a kiss to Paula's forehead and walks up to Andrés. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“She won’t sleep. I need a break.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Go to sleep, Raquel.” Andrés takes her hand and squeezes. She kisses his cheek and exits the room, leaving Andrés and Paula alone. The man looks around for a book and sits in the chair next to Paula's bed. He skims through the thick fairytale book before setting it down again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“These stories are all stupid.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re not stupid.” Paula frowns, opening her eyes and sitting up.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why won’t you sleep?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not tired.” Her words are interrupted with a tense yawn, causing Andrés to chuckle quietly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think that’s the case. What is on your mind?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The boys at school say I can’t play baseball ‘cause I’m a girl.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s bullshit.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Swear jar.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Andrés rolls his eyes and leans forward in the chair that’s far too small for him. “Listen. You are going to be the biggest star in the whole world, and it will be because you’re strong and talented. Not because of your gender.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They won’t let me play with them at lunch.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Then throw a ball up and practice batting. Paula, the only thing that can come between you and your goals is your mind. You’re the smartest kid I know-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m the only kid you know.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Zip it. I’m trying to be nice here.” Andrés takes a breath and shakes his head, rerouting himself . “I am going to speak to your principal.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh god, please don’t.” She looks up at him with worry in her eyes, sitting up straighter. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Does your mother know you’re being treated this way?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, but- it doesn’t even matter. Like you said. My own mind, or whatever. I’ll just play by myself. Don’t come to my school.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Andrés sighs. “Fine. But if they continue to bother you, I will find out. And I know some very powerful people.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Paula lays back down and closes her eyes. “Uncle Andrés?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me the story about how you started playing.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>December 25th, 2015. Madrid. </b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Martín stares down at the invitation, chewing on his lip and rereading the lines until they blur together in a messy clump. Hunter will be home soon, and right now is his only alone time. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been… different. He’s used to Hunter being kind and gentle, but ever since he started drinking again, the man has been a bit more hostile. Nothing too serious. A few bruises on his arms from drunken arguments remain, but other than that, Martín is happy in their relationship. He distinctly hears the front door open but his mind is occupied elsewhere. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Merry Christmas, amor.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Martín flinches, slamming the card down on the table as Hunter wraps his arms around his waist. The older man frowns. “What’s that?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Letter from Alfonso.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me see.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s nothing.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Martín. Show me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Martín slides the card over, biting down on his thumbnail as Hunter reads the contents of the letter. He’s quiet for a minute, then hands it back to Martín. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not going.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But- I would only be gone a couple days. I can even take the train out by myself, or- or Alfonso would come with me. It would be fine-“</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want you going, Martín. You are perfectly fine here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I am now, but what about in 5 years? I don’t want to stay in Madrid forever, Hunter.” Martín stands, crossing his arms over his chest. Hunter gives him a look and rolls his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So, what? You’re gonna leave me here? Go be some big star? Well guess what, Martín. You don’t have the skill to do anything other than community baseball. Grow up.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know that I’m good! I can make a living, get money for us, for our future-“</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There won’t be an us if you go!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well maybe I have to sacrifice some things for the bigger picture-“</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Martín is interrupted again, but this time, it’s by the force of a slap to the side of his cheek. The room falls silent, the only sound being the pair's unmatched breathing. Martín holds his palm up to his cheek, cradling the warming skin. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You aren’t going. That’s final.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hunter grabs the invitation, ripping it in half and throwing it into the garbage, before storming off into their bedroom. Martín sits down on the couch, taking a minute to breathe before bringing his phone out. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His finger hovers over Alfonso’s contact, wanting nothing more than to call the man and have him pick him up, bringing him back to his real home. But he can’t leave Hunter, and if Alfonso finds out, he would force Martín to come back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He puts his phone back in his pocket, digs through the trash to find the letter and keeps it under a weak spot in the floorboards, going off to their bedroom in hopes to cheer Hunter up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The suitcase seated in his closet taunts him.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sorry im slacking on updates. i will try and be more frequent!!! comments and kudos give me life (sorry i crave attention LMAOO). hope your halloween was safe and good if you celebrated, and i hope you’re staying healthy and at home (if possible). love u guys!!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope you enjoyed!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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